The Short Bloke in the Army Outfit
by TenPointsFromGryffindor
Summary: Sherlock appears to have found his perfect partner; Lestrade is worried for his own sanity. Wherein there is a suspected serial killer, a chase and Captain John Watson, MD. is a badass motherfucker. Some language. A gift fic for LunaKyria


**Thanks:** **To Loony, my darling beta**

**Warning: Language that may offend sensibilities. John wouldn't usually approve, but then again he's a soldier.  
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**Notes: This is set in a universe in my head where John and Sherlock met when John was still actively touring in the army. At this point, John is on base in England, has served two tours of Afghanistan and will soon be sent on a third. As a preface to this fic, he earned himself 36 hours leave which most would just spend relaxing on base. However, Mycroft owed Sherlock - I don't know - a birthday present or something and sent John a car to drive up to London and visit his best friend. John essentially has the evening in which this story takes place and the next day to do as he pleases - naturally this means spending as much time as possible with Sherlock 3  
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* * *

**_The Short Bloke in the Army Outfit  
_**

DI Lestrade sighed as he looked down at the third body, rubbing the bridge of nose, hoping to stave off the oncoming headache.

Three meant Sherlock Holmes.

Even if Lestrade didn't call him – which, though his pride hurt to admit it, he would – the self-appointed _consulting_ detective would bother, harass and generally annoy the DI and his people until they let him in on the case out of pure self-preservation.

Knowing that the longer he waited, the stroppier Sherlock would be about ruined evidence (and _why that was Lestrade's problem_ was one of the great mysteries of his life), Lestrade grabbed his phone and summoned the man with a text message.

**_Third body.  
Blonde, missing toes.  
47 Butlers Street_**

**-Lestrade**

The reply was so quick he was still holding the phone up when it vibrated. Sherlock's texting speed was unnatural, especially as it always took the good DI ten minutes or so to type out his bare bones messages on the tiny keyboard of his so-called _smart_ phone.

**ETA 10 mins.  
If possible, remove Anderson from crime scene.  
Check lipstick.**

**-****_SH_**

Unable to resist shaking his head at Sherlock's simultaneous petulance and arrogance, he stowed his phone in his pocket as he looked around the scene again, trying to see it with the consulting detective's eyes.

He couldn't, for the life of him, though he wasn't entirely sure that was a bad thing.

In his perusal of the room, he caught the eyes of his police sergeant, Sally Donovan, and she made her way over to stand by his side. Her face curled into a sneer as her eyes flickered over the body on the bed, and Lestrade wasn't sure it was wholly due to the poor girl's murder either.

"I don't understand why you insist on involving the Freak," she said to him, turning her eyes from the girl's remains to look at him with a mixture of disgust and disappointment, "You're enabling him, you know. It'll be your badge when he snaps."

Lestrade hummed noncommittally in response and turned from her to beckon over one of Anderson's forensic team. The man he'd called was a new recruit and looked a bit green around the gills, but he complied hastily enough when the DI instructed him to examine the victim's clothing and possessions in search of lipstick.

Cryptic though the bastard was, clues from Sherlock Holmes usually turned something up.

Almost fifteen minutes later, the man himself appeared with his usual flair, familiar greatcoat billowing dramatically behind him.

What was unusual, however, was that rather than emerging from a taxi as was his wont, it was from a sleek black town car he pulled his long, lean frame. Much to Lestrade's surprise, the car itself then parked instead of driving away and the driver got out as well, walking up to Sherlock who had stopped in front of the DI to wait for him.

Lestrade glared at the consulting detective, sparing barely a glance for his companion.

"Who's this then, Sherlock?" he asked with the air of someone whose deep well of patience was beginning to run dry, "This is a crime scene, you can't bring civilians along!"

Sherlock's – Sherlock's what? Friend? Driver? Kidnapping victim with severe Stockholm Syndrome? – _companion_ stepped up to the consultant's side and the DI shifted his gaze to study the man.

The first thing his attention was drawn to was the fact that the newcomer was wearing what appeared to be genuine British Royal Army fatigues. Dog tags were hung casually around his neck and his feet were ensconced in functional, well-used combat boots. Upon his left breast was a patch which read _Watson_.

He was a short man, veritably dwarfed by the lanky Sherlock Holmes, but Lestrade was a good judge of people –he had a large range of reference for dangerous characters – and he felt as though this wasn't a man to be underestimated. This feeling was only compounded when he noticed the lines of well-defined muscles on his legs, arms and chest, visible even underneath the relatively shapeless camouflage material.

The DI was distracted from his observations by the man himself, stepping forward with a casual salute followed by a friendly grin which was well-suited to his generically handsome face.

"Captain John Watson, MD. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I didn't think he was supposed to bring me here, I have no prob-"

"Don't be ridiculous John," Sherlock interrupted, levelling a glare at Lestrade, "of course you're welcome to accompany me."

With that the tall, self-entitled man stalked past the weary DI with head held high. Watson trotted along behind with a soft, fond smile at Sherlock's back and an apologetic shrug in Lestrade's direction.

Taking a second to draw from his well of long-suffering patience reserved specifically for dealing with Sherlock Holmes, DI Lestrade himself then turned and followed the two men into the building.

Unfortunately, before even entering the bedroom-cum-murder scene, Lestrade could hear Anderson's almost petulant voice echoing down the hall.

"I wouldn't hang around _Holmes_, if I were you." Even from outside the room, there was an audible sneer as the forensic officer uttered the consulting detective's name. "Unless you're here to finally take the freak for testing by the military?"

The DI felt the ache behind his eyes increase in anticipation of the retort from Sherlock and subsequent insult contest between the two.

He was surprised instead by the quiet, firm voice of Watson replying with, "I believe we're too busy avoiding being shot by insurgents in the Middle East to bother with geniuses who contribute highly to the betterment of society."

Lestrade couldn't help but huff a laugh at that one. As he entered the room he had to supress his smirk at the infuriated look on Anderson's face.

Watson had moved over to where Sherlock was leaning over the girl on the bed. The newcomer didn't look the least troubled by the gory scene; rather he appeared enthralled by his companion's murmurings, moving his attentive gaze from Holmes' face to the long fingered hands pointing out the man's deductions and back again.

After a few minutes, the consulting detective straightened up from his observational position and turned to meet Lestrade's eyes, striding over with Watson in his wake.

"You're most likely looking for a man – the upper body strength required for the abdominal wounds make a female murderer highly unlikely – a butcher or cook as the amputations are clean but clearly designed to save the flesh rather than sever the bone. He'll be five foot and seven to nine inches tall with light brown hair worn long. Deep seated issues about his distant mother who was most likely killed in an accident he witnessed at a young age when she happened to be wearing that particular _coral red_ shade of lipstick-"

Lestrade interrupted the sudden flurry of information with, "Wait, hair? What? Sherlock how did you-?"

Sherlock sighed as if it was _his _patience constantly being tested in their working relationship.

"Yes, Lestrade, _hair_," he said as if to a child, before spinning on his toes and stalking toward the body, gesturing irritably at the victim's lips and continuing in his usual manner.

"He sees the lipstick his mother was wearing when he was a child as the ultimate improvement upon female beauty. Applying the lipstick allows his victim to become worthy of him and equal to his mother. Thus, with his mother being dead, it was applied post mortem. The hair is on top of the lipstick and, considering the pattern of the bloodstains, the head hasn't been jostled enough for it to feasibly be the woman's own hair. Adding to that the fact that it is inconsistent not only with her meticulous dye job but the thickness and texture of her hair, it appears fairly obvious that it belongs to the killer."

Frustrated, but still drawing from his deep well of patience, the DI gestured to one of Anderson's team to photograph and bag the damned hair. Sherlock appeared not to notice the act as he turned from the body back to Lestrade, hands flying up in the air.

"But that's _not the point_, Lestrade! You've distracted me with Anderson's unending incompetence. No, no. The point of the lipstick is that he's vain. Very vain. Vain enough to come back to the crime scene, almost certainly. It's quite simple from here – I'm sure even Sergeant Donovan could work it out. Stake out the house, wait for the man who matches the description and arrest him. I'm sure that hair your people failed to find will wrap everything up nicely from a legal vantage point."

It was at times like this that Lestrade wholly understood why Sally was constantly muttering about 'punching the git in his smug, cheekboned face'.

"That's amazing."

The DI had forgotten Captain Watson, MD. _Impressive Sounding Title_ was in the room until he uttered those words with quiet honesty.

All eyes turned to the newcomer who almost blushed under the scrutiny, but shrugged off the embarrassment quickly to stand at attention, staring the consulting detective in the eyes with fondness that contained just a touch of awe. The smug look on Sherlock's face morphed into something Lestrade would call pleased surprise if it were worn by anyone but the infuriatingly self-assured Sherlock Holmes.

The moment appeared to stretch endlessly for the two men, but was broken in a second as they turned away from one another, each smiling for his companion.

"No need to thank us for doing your job, Lestrade," Sherlock said, heading out the door with his army man in tow.

Stilled for a moment by his annoyance at the infuriatingly smug bastard, Lestrade suddenly remembered he'd need the git's testimony on record. Sherlock was _always_ doing this to him.

"Wait, now, hold on just a second!" the DI called out as he ran after the two men leaving the house, "I need you to make a statement, Sherlock, for Pete's sake!"

He opened the front door just in time to see Watson touch Sherlock's shoulder – well, upper arm really considering the height difference – in warning before turning sharply on his heels to charge toward the small crowd gathered beyond the crime scene tape. Most of the curious civilians seemed alarmed at this; however one man took off as if the hounds of hell were at his heels.

A tall, heavily muscled man with long, light brown hair.

_Well, shit._

Sherlock, in an uncommonly slow thought process, seemed to come to this conclusion at the same time as the DI and then Lestrade was watching long black coattails flap as the consulting detective took off in pursuit.

"Shit," he swore, out loud this time, "Donovan! Suspect on the move, civilians involved – call for back up!"

He hadn't even finished issuing the instruction before he was taking off after the tall man already a fair way into the distance.

Unfortunately Sherlock's legs were considerably longer than Lestrade's and easily ate the distance as they sprinted through the winding streets of London. It wasn't long before he'd lost sight of that flapping overcoat completely.

Slowing to a walk to catch his breath, Lestrade swore into the air after Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes!

Why had Watson taken off after the man without backup anyway? The small man must have a few screws loose to be so cosy with Sherlock Holmes, but surely he understood he was no match for a large butcher/serial killer?

He was busy hoping he wouldn't be dealing with another body tonight when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

**Take two lefts, a right and a left past the kebab store.  
Suspect has been incapacitated.  
Do attempt to be competent.**

**-****_SH_**

Sherlock needn't have been so specific in his directions, as after the first two turns Lestrade was easily able to use the screams of bloody murder as a guide.

The yelling began to form words as he approached the alleyway where the murder suspect had apparently been apprehended.

"Oh god! What have you done? You fucking freak! You've broken my arm!"

A huff of a laugh cut in over the panicked crying.

"Come on, princess. I didn't _break_ your arm."

This time Lestrade recognised the deep snort as Sherlock.

"It's only dislocated" the voice – which it stood to reason must be Watson, though that fact boggled Lestrade's mind – continued, sounding amused, "I'll fix it for you now."

That brought a full laugh from Sherlock, which frankly was more than a little disturbing.

"No don't! It's not broken! Get your fucking hands off-"

The shouting descended into a pained yell as Lestrade rounded the corner to the alley in time to see Captain Watson with his foot square on the back of the large man they'd been chasing and both hands pulling back the suspect's right shoulder. Sherlock was on the other side of the smallish lane, looking on amusedly with the air of a man conceding control of the situation. The man on the ground groaned as Watson moved his capable hands from the apparently fixed shoulder to pull both the suspect's large arms into a restrictive pose.

"This is fucking brutality! You can't do this! You and your fucking freak boyfriend ought to be fucking locked up!"

Watson stiffened and even from his place at the entrance of the side street Lestrade could see the booted foot push down punishingly as he leant over to say, "I really think it's in your best interests to hold your _fucking_ tongue right now."

Straightening, the military man glanced behind his shoulder, holding out his left hand towards the consulting detective who, with a rare smile on his face, tossed Watson a pair of handcuffs. New Scotland Yard standard regulation handcuffs. Lestrade absently wondered which of his subordinates he'd have to warn _again_ about Sherlock Holmes' sticky fingers.

Said man's voice interrupted the DI's rather unprofessional staring.

"Do come here and do your _job_, Lestrade."

At his friend's words, Watson pulled the suspect forcefully up from his kneeling position and pushed the cuffed man in Lestrade's direction.

With a sheepish smile the captain lifted the bound hands in offering to the DI, who (much to his embarrassment) hadn't yet finished gaping at the smaller man.

Managing to shut his mouth, Lestrade took the suspect's hands, allowing Watson to walk over to Sherlock's side.

"Right," the consulting detective said, his gaze sweeping his companion as the corners of his mouth quirked up, "I believe we've wasted enough of your leave entertaining NSY's finest, John. I've texted Donovan, so no doubt she will be here soon enough and I have no intention of interacting with Anderson's mistress _twice_ in one day."

"It's true enough that I hadn't exactly had this in mind when I drove up to London today," Captain Watson agreed good-naturedly, "but I do know you could never resist showing off, Sherlock, so I hardly think the blame for our wasted time rests solely on DI Lestrade's shoulders."

Sherlock made a dismissive gesture with a flick of his wrist.

"Regardless, we have wasted time now and I have no desire to wait around for the rest of the Yarders to bumble their way over here."

Watson shook his head at his friend's antics, but Lestrade could see a fond smile clearly on his face.

"Race you to the car?"

The captain didn't give Sherlock time to respond as he took off down the alley. Lestrade was treated to a wide grin spreading across the consulting detective's face before the tall man was off too, coat flapping dramatically behind him.

The DI was left holding a whimpering suspect and staring after the two men. He had a feeling it wouldn't be the last he'd see of them as a pair. Sherlock Holmes seemed to have found his perfect partner.

Sherlock, as usual, was right and it didn't take Donovan long to arrive with a car to take in the large man on suspicion of murder.

Lestrade's Sergeant glanced between him and the man in custody with an impressed look on her face. The DI shook his head in denial and gave her a look that said '_later'._

Once the suspect was safely in the back of the police car Donovan turned to her superior with both eyebrows raised.

"How on earth'd you manage to cuff him by yourself?"

"Didn't, Sherlock's doctor did."

Donovan's eyebrows climbed higher, if that was possible.

"The short bloke in the army outfit?"

"Yes, him."

They shared a look of incredulity and fell into an amused silence as they walked around to get into the front of the patrol car.

Lestrade had just sat down in the passenger seat when he let out a breath and uttered a curse in realisation.

"What?" his Sergeant asked, glancing at him as she buckled her seat belt.

"I forgot to get them to come in for their _bloody_ statements!"

**_END_**


End file.
